


All I Want for Christmas Is— So Help Me, You'd Better Not Say It

by khasael



Series: Yes, it's a Christmas classic, deal with it [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Embarrassment, Enjolras is not a morning person, Fluff, Guilty Pleasures, Hot Chocolate, Love Actually - Freeform, M/M, Movie Reference, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's probably the last place Grantaire's expected to be, but he has to admit, sharing Enjolras's couch while they watch <i>Love, Actually</i> isn't exactly a hardship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want for Christmas Is— So Help Me, You'd Better Not Say It

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I said something like "give me a couple of days and there might be a short chapter from Grantaire's POV"…and it turned into two and a half months later, because my life went "haha, no more writing for YOU" for a while, and also this is literally about twice as long as the first part, soooo… it's a separate fic in a series, and not a second chapter. Whoops.
> 
> Also, really, this had been sitting around, about 85% done, for the last 2+ months, during which time MajaLi, Byaghro, and I started referring to this fic as "the one with the accidental ode to hot chocolate," and then George Blagden [tweeted THIS](http://twitter.com/gblagden/status/575028388689231872), and I just finally snapped and said "screw it, I'm finishing this thing, I don't care if it's March and this is a Christmas fic" while Byaghro just about fell off her couch, laughing at me about it being a sign. Because seriously.

When Grantaire drifts back into consciousness, four things slowly become clear:

One: He's sitting upright, tangled in a blanket that doesn't smell like home, but _does_ smell like something not entirely unfamiliar, with only a dim source of light in the room that doesn't really illuminate anything.

Two: There's music playing, something soft and instrumental. It takes a moment, but once he's identified that there's music, he realizes it's playing on a loop, just a short little melody, and it's only another couple of seconds before he places it—the theme that cycles during the DVD menu of _Love, Actually_. 

Three: There's another person sitting next to him.

Four: That person is, in fact, Enjolras. Who is snoring softly.

Grantaire struggles to process all of these facts into a cohesive assessment of what the hell is going on, but he's warm and sleep-stupid. It slowly comes back to him—the walk from the Café Musain to Enjolras's apartment, both of them moving awkwardly from the combination of the cold and a slip or two along the way; Enjolras cranking the heat in his apartment so they had a hope of defrosting sometime before the New Year; settling in under the blankets Enjolras brought into the living room with him just before he put the disc in to play; fighting the battle against sleep not five minutes into the movie, Enjolras doing that occasional jerking head-bob next to him, the one that meant he was fighting the same battle and losing.

After that, he doesn't remember anything, which makes a lot of sense, given the apparent current state of things.

Grantaire manages to extract his phone from his pocket to check the time. It's nearly two in the morning. It's fucking cold as hell out, something he doesn't even need to open the weather app to know, but he should probably still get up—without disturbing Enjolras, obviously—and head home before he overstays any welcome he has. The fact that he had been extended a welcome at all is still surprising, and might still be the product of some dream he hasn't yet woken from. Maybe he never even made it to the Musain last night—maybe he's at home, sleeping instead of showering before the meeting like he'd planned on doing. Or maybe he's in a coma, having been hit by a bus on the way to the meeting, hurrying to get there after working on one of his paintings too long and having to basically jog there after aforementioned shower. Or maybe—

Maybe he'd better just stop fucking letting his imagination come up with increasingly weird scenarios, and focus instead on panicking just a little, because Enjolras has shifted on the couch, angling towards Grantaire in a way that means they'll basically be face-to-face, staring at each other, if Enjolras happens to wake up right now.

He starts to turn away, trying to figure out how to best leverage himself off the couch and get up without jostling his sleeping host, when Enjolras furrows his brow, pulls one of the blankets up, bunching it under his chin and pinning Grantaire where he is in a single, firm movement, and lets out a sigh that's just barely audible, even from this close.

Okay, so now he's kind of screwed on the easy, quiet escape thing.

Sometime later, while Grantaire is waiting for Enjolras to shift enough to unpin Grantaire from where he's tangled in the—three? four?—blankets on them in various degrees, he falls back to sleep, trying at once to sit as far away as possible without waking Enjolras and wanting to do the opposite of that and turn into him, curling into his warmth.

* * *

When Grantaire wakes again, he's alone. There are two blankets neatly folded in the empty spot next to him on the couch, another one kind of bunched up in the middle, and the last is still over Grantaire, up over one shoulder but leaving most of his upper body uncovered.

There's no sign of Enjolras, and Grantaire lets out a quiet, relieved breath. He's probably in the shower, or his bedroom, and Grantaire can just take off, send a text once he's home saying thanks for letting him crash for the night, and they'll see each other at the Musain next week, unless Enjolras still wants to get Chinese food today or tomorrow. Because while Grantaire still isn't sure what made Enjolras offer in the first place, he still holds a bit of hope that it's an offer that's still open.

He stands, trying to fold the blankets in as tidy a manner as he can manage without making much noise, and turns to place them onto the pile of the other ones. And that's when he sees Enjolras, standing in the kitchen and staring at him.

Well, fuck.

"Uh," Grantaire begins, wishing he'd escaped last night to avoid this unexpected awkwardness. "Good morning?"

Enjolras favors him with a look that's less than thrilled, and something within Grantaire sinks. He never should have accepted the invitation to come over last night, no matter how well things had been going. He and Enjolras have never been able to spend much time together without it going downhill, one or both of them irritated by the end of things. Grantaire's just about to make some hasty excuse, forget the loose plans for a meal together, and bolt, when Enjolras speaks, his voice gravelly: "There should be coffee in about two more minutes."

Grantaire takes in the look on Enjolras's face, re-evaluates it, and sees it for what it is—not irritation with Grantaire, but that vague, general irritation with the world wanting him to be awake and functioning without caffeine to help things along yet. "Uh, yeah, coffee would be great, if you're offering."

Enjolras nods curtly, and turns his near-scowl on the coffee maker, like he can make it brew faster through sheer force of will. Hell, he probably can. Grantaire wouldn't be completely surprised. "I made enough for both of us, just in case."

If Grantaire wasn't already totally fucking gone on this asshole, he'd be in danger of becoming so right now. 

Also, he'd never have guessed Enjolras wasn't a morning person. He'd always sort of figured Enjolras was the kind of person who woke with a snap in his step and a battle hymn in his heart, ready to conquer the world from the first ray of daylight.

"Thanks." He tries not to find it endearing when Enjolras just nods at him, still focused on the coffee maker.

Grantaire keeps a bit of distance as the coffee pot sputters, indicating the end of the brewing cycle, not wanting to get in Enjolras's way as he moves around the small kitchen, reaching into a cupboard to pull out two mugs. He doesn't say anything else, but Grantaire watches him with surprise he tries to hide as he not only pours two mugs of coffee, but adds just the smallest splash of milk and two spoons of sugar to one. He adds much more milk and less sugar to the other, grabs the first mug and waits for Grantaire to take it, then wraps his hands around the second mug and cradles it close, inhaling the steam deeply.

Enjolras knows how Grantaire takes his coffee. 

Grantaire doesn't even know what to _do_ with that information.

Throwing himself across the counter at him and proposing marriage is probably not a proportionate reaction. At least he's aware of that.

"Thanks," he says again, instead, wanting to punch himself in the face till he gets hold of himself when Enjolras just sort of hums into his coffee cup. 

"So I guess I should get going," Grantaire finally brings himself to say, once his cup is empty. "Thanks for inviting me over to watch the movie."

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, setting his own almost-empty mug down. "Did you actually make it through the whole thing?"

Grantaire hesitates. He's assumed he'd fallen asleep first, given how little of it he remembers seeing last night, but maybe that's not the case. "I maybe made it five or ten minutes in?"

One corner of Enjolras's mouth twitches upwards. He looks a lot less cranky than he did just a few minutes ago. "Makes two of us." He lets out a small snort. "I'd say that's a pretty significant failure on compiling that argument against Bahorel."

"Yeah," Grantaire allows, unsure of what else to say. Normally, he'd reply with something about how he's always failing, but it doesn't feel like that's the right thing to do, just this moment. 

"You up for giving it another try?"

Grantaire can _feel_ his own eyebrows shoot up in surprise, though he tries to control them. "Seriously?"

Enjolras looks at him. "What? Neither of us has managed to watch it yet this year. And it's _December twenty-fourth_."

"Well, yes, but—" 

With another look, Enjolras drains the last of his coffee. "You know, sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion."

Grantaire can't even help the way his jaw just sort of drops. "Did you—did you just quote _Donnie Darko_ at me?" If someone had told Grantaire, even early last night, that Enjolras actually consumed pop culture—at least, cinematic pop culture—he'd probably never have believed them. But yet…

Enjolras offers the smallest of smiles. "Maybe. Is that a yes or a no, by the way?"

Grantaire opens and closes his mouth a few times, knowing he looks like a particularly stupid fish when he does it, but he can't seem to come up with a reply for once. "Let me go home and shower, at least?"

How the hell are those words even situationally appropriate? What has his life come to? And is there a way to prove to himself that he's not laid up in the hospital somewhere, in a coma or under the influence of a shit-ton of drugs?

"All right. What would you say to…I don't know…five o'clock?"

Grantaire nods, wondering if he'll still have the nerve to show up here that many hours from now. He can hear Eponine's voice in his head: _If the guy you've had a hopeless crush on for two years asked you up to his apartment, would you really say no?_ The answer, however, is a simple _actually, yes, yes, I would,_ because Grantaire is an utter coward in that way, and he _must_ have a head injury or something, because he's actually agreeing to do it for a second time in twenty-four hours. Still his voice answers differently. "Five's good." _Five's good_. Could he have said anything stupider?

Enjolras, though, is looking at him as if that's one important thing settled, like he's given the correct answer to some question where his input's actually desired. "Great."

"Great," Grantaire echoes faintly, and then realizes he's got to get the hell out of there, before Enjolras gets a reminder of how much of an idiot Grantaire actually is, and calls the whole thing off. He's lacing up his shoes and shrugging on his coat as quickly as he can manage without appearing rude, and flees Enjolras's apartment, grateful for the way the wind numbs his face on the walk home, because at least worrying about frostbite is better than replaying the last few minutes in Enjolras's kitchen and wanting to beat his head against a wall.

* * *

Grantaire is actually, legitimately pacing around his apartment at three-thirty when his phone buzzes with an incoming text message. He glances at it, expecting, well, not really expecting anything in particular, and tries not to freak out when he sees it's from Enjolras.

**Have you eaten lunch or dinner yet?**

Grantaire stares at his phone, like it'll give up some divine secret, and then sighs and types out his response. He hasn't, actually, because he's stupidly nervous about what idiotic thing he'll do or say if he actually goes to Enjolras's place again this evening. He'd managed a bowl of cereal not long after getting home this morning, but that's it. **No. Haven't quite been hungry** he sends before he can stop himself, belatedly realizing that just "no" would probably have been perfectly adequate. His phone buzzes again, and it's only a single word: **okay**.

"Okay?" Grantaire mutters, irrationally annoyed with the lack of information he's received. He's about to respond back, maybe ask why, or even say that the reason he hasn't been hungry is because he isn't feeling well (because he can't fuck up and piss Enjolras off if he doesn't go over in the first place), when a third message comes through: **See you at five**.

And that's it, though Grantaire stares at his phone for a solid four minutes, just standing in the middle of his living room. No question mark or anything. Just the assertion that Enjolras will see him in a little over an hour.

Grantaire almost calls Eponine, or even Courfeyrac or Combeferre up for a pep talk, and then realizes he'll have to explain what happened last night and this morning and field their questions, having to assure them that a total lack of anything interesting occurred. In the end, he just puts on his boots and jacket and gloves, shoves a beanie on his head, and walks out the door like this is no big deal.

It's totally a big deal.

It's _not_ a big deal, damn it. It's _not_.

When he arrives at Enjolras's apartment at five minutes past five, he's greeted at the front door by the sight of Enjolras in a pair of jeans, a worn-in looking Henley shirt, and with his feet bare. He doesn't know why he should be so caught off-guard by that—he knows Enjolras takes his shoes off at the door, always walks around barefoot, and he'd even mentioned it last night—but it's just another of those stupid little details that makes Grantaire fall just a tiny fraction harder, if that's even possible. "So…" Grantaire says after a moment, when Enjolras doesn't say anything in greeting. "Holiday film appreciation evening, take two?"

Enjolras blinks for a second, then seems to snap out of whatever the hell was wrong with him and offers a crooked little smile. "We'll do better this time," he says, ushering Grantaire into the apartment. His grin goes a little wider, a little more even, when Grantaire pauses just inside the door to remove his boots, and Enjolras takes his coat from him without any actual words, going to hang it in some hall closet or somewhere else Grantaire can't see from where he's standing, even though their jackets had just ended up laid over the back of a chair last night.

"You said you haven't eaten?" Enjolras asks a few moments later, when he and Grantaire are just sort of awkwardly standing there, looking at each other in Enjolras's living room. 

"No, not really." He really, really should have begged off. It's clearer the longer he stands here, and he wonders if it's as clear to Enjolras, or even more so. He's not even sure which one of them regrets this more.

Enjolras rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not really much of a cook or anything, so." When Grantaire keeps silent, not sure what he's supposed to say, Enjolras clears his throat. "So, uh, I picked up something from a place down the street, if you want to eat at all?"

Grantaire still isn't sure how to respond for a moment, utterly perplexed that Enjolras has decided to make an effort at being a good host. It's not that he thinks Enjolras is necessarily the kind of person who would be _bad_ at that sort of thing—it's more that he'd never have thought Enjolras would put in the time or energy to be so, with _him_.

It's doing really weird things to Grantaire's head, actually.

"I could eat," he says after another awkward moment, even though the thought of food right now actually makes him feel a little queasy. He's not usually quite so _on edge_ with Enjolras—but then again, he's also usually on more familiar footing, occupying his usual role as the person who pokes and prods at Enjolras's arguments (and the man himself), trying to get him to see outside his usual perceptions, acknowledge other points of view, even if he doesn't like them, goading him into arguments that may sometimes be for the simple purpose of giving Grantaire some intellectual stimulation. 

Also, Enjolras is never as attractive as when he's brimming with energy and defiance and challenge, and Grantaire loves to see him passionate about something, even if he doesn't believe in whatever theories or viewpoints Enjolras happens to be spouting. It's Enjolras as he's meant to be, and it's the most beautiful thing Grantaire has ever known.

"Good. Great," Enjolras says, looking only the slightest fraction less awkward, now that Grantaire's accepted. "I guess just…get comfortable, and I'll be right back?"

 _Get comfortable._ As if it's that easy, behaving as if he has a right to be here, in Enjolras's personal space. This part, at least, was easier last night, when they'd both been tired and half-frozen and had skipped all but the most essential niceties, settling onto the couch quickly and wrapping themselves in the blankets Enjolras had pulled from somewhere. Still, he nods and gives a casual "yeah, okay" as he tries to find a way to sit on the couch that's not too familiar, without also being too uptight.

It doesn't help that Enjolras's couch is actually a loveseat, designed to only _fit_ two people, who presumably are at least minimally comfortable with one another.

When Enjolras steps back into the living room area from the small kitchen, he's carrying a small white cardboard bakery box in one hand. "There are sandwiches, too, if you want actual food, but I thought these go better with hot chocolate."

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. "Hot chocolate?"

The tips of Enjolras's ears turn pink, though the flush shows nowhere else. "It's sort of a tradition of mine."

Oh. Well, okay, he supposes that makes sense, especially as that's how this whole damned thing got started, between Cosette and Jehan and their prodding. "Sounds like a pretty acceptable tradition," he says with a shrug and, this time, Enjolras seems to relax even more. He leans forward, peering into the box on the coffee table as Enjolras walks back towards the kitchen, curious if not actually hungry. "What did you pick—ooh, are these rugelach?"

"Chocolate, raspberry, and currant with walnuts," Enjolras confirms over his shoulder. "Some assorted cookies. And a couple of _Mandelbrot_ , too. I haven't tried those before. But they came out fresh while I was trying to figure out what to get, and they smelled good."

That, Grantaire can tell for himself. "They're amazing with coffee," he says, getting a whiff and actually considering snacking a bit now that he's confronted with the provisions Enjolras has procured. "Provided you like almonds and citrus." 

He's trying to decide which flavor of rugelach might be calling his name in its faint, sugary voice, when Enjolras calls out from the kitchen, "What are your feelings on marshmallows?"

Grantaire replies without even thinking, still trying to select a pastry. "Essential to the hot chocolate experience, unless fresh whipped cream and/or booze are the other option." And only a few seconds later, Enjolras is standing in front of him, holding out a mug that appears to be nothing _but_ marshmallows. He blinks but still takes the mug, noticing as he does so that the one still left in Enjolras's hand has what looks to be an equal number of them. "I'm not getting out of here without a cavity or a call to the emergency room for diabetic shock, am I?"

Enjolras's ears go pink again and his face looks just the slightest bit pinched, until he seems to notice that Grantaire's words aren't making fun, so much as gentle teasing. And then he smiles, just a fraction. "Ah, yes, you've figured out my grand plan. Invite you over, sugar you up, send you to the hospital or for an emergency dentist's visit."

Grantaire grins back at him. "Well, so long as you accompany me along the road to this future sugar high."

They clink mugs, like this is a thing they do, like they're used to spending time together outside of the Café Musain at all, and Grantaire tries to take a sip of his drink. It's really a failed attempt. For whatever reason, Enjolras has seriously piled on the marshmallows, and the ones on the bottom, floating on top of the hot liquid, have started to melt and form a sugary seal over the drink, and all Grantaire gets for a moment is frustrated. And then some of the hot chocolate finally breaks through, enough for him to taste it and only just little enough for him to be grateful he hasn't gulped it down, because it's still quite hot.

And _good_.

Grantaire makes a noise that he really should be embarrassed about, something sort of like a moan, and Enjolras gives him this weird look and almost drops the remote control he's pointing in the direction of the television. He takes an extra moment to savor the first sip of the drink before letting anything like shame enter the picture, and tries to play off his reaction with a compliment. "This isn't hot chocolate, this is ambrosia."

Enjolras is still giving him a weird look, but he shakes it off after a couple of seconds and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "It's the way my grandmother used to make it. Real milk, and a bit of heavy cream."

"And here I expected the 'add water to a packet of mix' variety," Grantaire murmurs. At Enjolras's offended face, Grantaire holds up one hand. "Not that I'm not completely, pleasantly surprised. Very glad to be wrong."

Enjolras's eyebrows go up. "I don't think I've ever heard you go down without a fight before. Or actually admit defeat, ever, when the alternative is arguing with me."

Grantaire resolutely bites down on the innuendo that's half-formed on his tongue regarding the phrase "go down" and how he'd maybe do that and more after a fight with Enjolras, when they're both worked up, because now is not the time or place. The time and place for that don't even _exist_ , as far as Grantaire is aware. And really, the last thing he wants to do at the moment is piss Enjolras off enough to where he'll kick him out before the movie even starts, and without being able to finish his heavenly hot chocolate. "Holiday miracle?"

Enjolras laughs then, looking surprised, but it's enough to reset things to where they can easily settle in on the loveseat and get the movie started. Everything's okay, which is nearly its own miracle. And then Grantaire looks over at Enjolras and cannot even think enough to close his mouth before words escape. "You're actually taking _notes_?"

The look Enjolras gives him is decidedly defensive. "How else are we giving Bahorel the list?"

There aren't words for the mix of amusement and incredulousness and stupid, surging affection Grantaire feels at that moment. He splutters for a moment, before his voice finds actual, coherent words. "Oh my God, you were serious."

Those…are probably the wrong words.

Enjolras's gaze becomes a little more closed off, a little more steely, and _that_ reaction, at least, is quite familiar. It's also not at all what Grantaire wants, and it figures he's been able to fuck this whole thing up not thirty seconds into the movie. They haven't even made it to Bill Nighy's botched attempt in the recording studio before Enjolras has paused it. "Wait," Grantaire says, almost frantically, making an abortive gesture that nearly results in hot chocolate and marshmallow goo being splashed onto the couch. "I just meant, I thought…I thought we were just going to sit and watch, for enjoyment. Trust me, I'm not opposed to shoving all the good things about this movie down Bahorel's throat."

It's kind of a shitty apology, in that it isn't actually an apology so much as an attempt at clarification to mitigate the damage, but it seems to be at least a step in the right direction, because Enjolras's face relaxes just the slightest bit. "Really?"

"Yeah, no, I swear. I'd love to help you punch holes in every possible thing he has to say about it."

"Like you do to _my_ arguments." It's not angry and accusatory, which throws Grantaire off for a second. It's...it's dry, maybe deadpan, is what it is, and it takes another second or two to process that there's the opportunity here for this to lighten back up again, that Enjolras might be willing to drop it, even make fun of their generally-unaddressed tendency to argue and piss each other off at every turn.

"Well, yeah, I mean, wouldn't it be nice to have my brilliant mind and insight _helping_ you for once, instead of hindering you?"

"Your arguments actually do help, usually," Enjolras murmurs, so softly that Grantaire can't actually be one hundred percent positive he's heard that correctly. When Grantaire hesitates, not sure if he should respond to that—if he's even _heard_ it right—Enjolras gives him an endearingly awkward, crooked grin. "Or at least your stubbornness, backing my argument up. I don't know about brilliant. At all."

"Dick," Grantaire says, without heat, because that, unbelievably, was a joke of some sort. He picks up his mug again and settles back into the couch, because this is apparently just how things are going to go. "You're lucky you make good hot chocolate."

"Well, you know, it's the one good thing I have to offer someone," Enjolras says, settling in himself. 

Grantaire nearly snorts a marshmallow. _Right._ One _good thing_ he thinks.

"What?"

That had been out loud, of course it had been. Grantaire doesn't look up from the surface of his hot chocolate, sure he'll have to excuse himself to bang his head against some bricks if he has to meet Enjolras's eyes. "I said, are we going to watch this thing?"

There's that weird look on Enjolras's face again, the one that's sort of confused and considering, and weirdly, unsettlingly sharp while still being soft. "All right, fine. I'll skip the note-taking. The first time."

"First time?"

Enjolras shrugs. "I'll rewatch it later on, start my list then. You don't have to stay after the first showing, if you don't want to." 

There's something in his voice that has Grantaire trying to puzzle out what's beyond the face value of that statement. He can't quite unravel it, but it doesn't exactly make itself forgotten. "I could be up for helping you put together that list, provided you aren't sick of me by the time we get through the movie once."

The offer, apparently, is what Enjolras was aiming for, because he nods, looking again like his usual self, and hits play again, curling up a little around his mug of hot chocolate once he sets down the remote.

After that, Grantaire focuses on the movie, figuring it's the safest way to get through the next two hours and fifteen minutes.

For a while, things are good. It's not quite the same as sitting in his own apartment, lounging around in ratty jeans or his comfiest sweatpants and favorite T-shirt, watching alone while drinking wine or the less frequent Irish coffee or spiked hot chocolate. But still, it's nice, in a way that Grantaire isn't quite used to, with someone else chuckling or making other soft noises in response to the film. Except…

Except there comes a point where he realizes this has the potential to become uncomfortable. 

Once the door opens on-screen and Juliet offers pie and pushes her way into Mark's apartment, Grantaire wishes he'd lied his ass off last night about which character he identifies with most. For fuck's sake, he could have said something ridiculous, like Colin, or even stuck with the still-basically-true answer of Billy Mack. But no, something had made him go all _truthful_ around Enjolras and, though he hadn't allowed any questions and had deliberately not elaborated upon his answer, he went and said he identified with Mark.

Which wouldn't _necessarily_ be a problem…if Grantaire couldn't feel the way Enjolras shifts a little whenever Mark's on screen, seeming to pay a little more attention to those scenes in particular. 

He can practically _hear_ the wheels spinning in Enjolras's head the entire time Juliet's obliviously pestering Mark in his own apartment, and when she utters the confused line, "you don't like me," Grantaire wishes he had thought to just get up and put his empty mug into the kitchen sink, so as to avoid the look he can _feel_ Enjolras throwing at the side of his head. He steadfastly ignores it, won't allow himself to turn his head even the slightest bit to the left, makes every effort to keep his face utterly blank at Mark's awkward line about self-preservation, and waits for the scene to cut back to Hugh Grant's own awkwardness from that damned Dido song.

And when it does, Enjolras says nothing. He doesn't pause the movie, doesn't make any attempt at conversation, doesn't do anything like clear his throat. Still, something feels different. It may be just Grantaire's overactive imagination, but he doesn't quite think so.

Several minutes later, Grantaire chances a look at Enjolras, when Sarah gets her own shitty night. There's something like a mildly pained expression on his face, but it's almost worn down, and Grantaire thinks back to what he said last night, about how he identifies with the fact that other things take precedence over her love life. Grantaire had thought that made enough sense on its own, but maybe Enjolras has his own take on the character, feels something like a deeper empathy, much like Grantaire does. It's the kind of thing he'd like to push Enjolras about, but he knows that the most likely outcomes of that course of action won't be pleasant—either Enjolras will end up demanding he leave, or they'll just end up arguing like they usually do, and Grantaire will storm off, if Enjolras doesn't do it first.

Grantaire finds himself tensing every time Andrew Lincoln's face appears on screen, but at least he has the goddamned foresight to get up and hide in the bathroom for a couple of minutes during that cue card scene, even manages something approaching casual when he tells Enjolras not to bother pausing it when he gets up off the couch.

The look on Enjolras's face when Grantaire gets back, however, doesn't exactly make Grantaire feel relaxed. It's a look best described as 'considering,' like facts and years' worth of observations are being systematically analyzed inside Enjolras's head, and Grantaire knows Enjolras is bright enough that he runs the chance of figuring out at least some of the details of the situation.

And, quite frankly, that scares him.

It's impossible to really get comfortable when he sits back on the loveseat, both Mark's and Billy Mack's awkward confessions over while he was out of the room, but Grantaire gives it a good attempt. The rest of the movie has a warm, easy feeling, for the most part, the majority of the stories wrapping up nicely as couple after couple gets their happily ever after or a promise of something good to come. He manages to enjoy the remainder of the movie, still grinning at Sam's _what the fuck_ face when Joanna starts pointing around the room.

When The Beach Boys start singing _God Only Knows_ , Grantaire deliberately doesn't look at Enjolras, pretending instead that he's actually interested in watching through the very end, like it's important that he sit through the name of every last special effects person and caterer and prop assistant and Foley artist. 

"So," Enjolras says once the DVD menu pops up again, and Grantaire holds his breath, waiting for the accusations or questions to begin. "Did you actually want to stick around and help me put together that list?"

Grantaire nods, trying to release the held breath without being obvious about it. "Yeah, sure."

The smile Enjolras gives him is warm before he stands up, brushing cookie crumbs from his lap, and says something about using the bathroom first, before he leaves the room.

The second he's gone, Grantaire buries his face in his hands. What is he even _doing_? One of them—probably him, because it's almost always him—is going to say the wrong thing, and it's all going to spiral into an argument and insults, or at the very least, awkwardness, and then things will just be weird and awful, and they _still_ won't have an argument to present to Bahorel, because Enjolras seems fixated on actually accomplishing that. But he's already said he'll stay, and Enjolras doesn't _actually_ look as if he's sick of Grantaire yet, doesn't mind his presence at all (which is a fairly new thing for them), and he can't actually think of an excuse that'll get him out of this without seeming rude, since he's already accepted, short of calling someone—on Christmas Eve—to have them fake an emergency so he can make a hasty exit. 

Grantaire takes a deep breath. He can last another, what, three hours, till he's out the door. The hell of it is, it's when he's actually been relaxed and not thinking about it during the last few weeks, that he's gotten along best with Enjolras. He doesn't think that's entirely his doing, either, because there was a day almost two months ago where Enjolras seemed to make some conscious decision about something, and actually _started_ a conversation with Grantaire, before one of their regular meetings at the Café Musain, just some little thing about what kind of pieces Grantaire was working on lately. Of course, they argued like cats and dogs _during_ the meeting, but Grantaire hasn't forgotten that unusual interaction. 

He declines the offer of sandwiches again when Enjolras reappears, because he's really not hungry enough to eat anything resembling a meal, but it doesn't seem to bother his host. Enjolras just snags another cookie from the box on the coffee table in front of them, settles in on the loveseat, and picks up the legal pad and pen from where it's resting on the side table, on the base of the lamp. "Ready?" Enjolras asks.

 _As I'll ever be_ , Grantaire thinks, instead answering with "Yeah, go for it."

It's actually easier the second time through. They snack their way through cookies and cold milk, there's a list with actual columns (including where Enjolras has decided to write down potential detractions and accusations about the movie's unsuitability as a Christmas classic, and a place for counter-arguments), and they pause the movie in a couple of places to actually talk about narrative flow and leading into a scene from the previous one, or comparing certain relationships by juxtaposing the tone or subject matter of other scenes in a particular order. Grantaire manages not to say anything about _also_ potentially identifying with Sarah when Alan Rickman's character tells her to casually drop the fact that she wants to marry Karl and have lots of sex and babies into conversation, even though he comes close. 

Enjolras, though, lets out this noise at "you know that?" and the answering "yes" that Grantaire can only classify as something between a startled snort and a laugh, before he mutters something Grantaire can't hear enough to make out. "What?" he asks, feeling more than a little suspicious, but Enjolras only shakes his head with this weird look on his face and keeps his attention on the movie. Grantaire lets it go, mostly because he's not actually sure he wants the answer.

Despite that, this second go-round, Grantaire can tell that they're both somehow more relaxed, more used to being in each other's space, perhaps, because one of them—he's not even sure which—starts quoting along with random lines. And once one starts, they both get into it, grinning at each other now and then when they quote the same line, or take a particular character in a short bit of dialogue, and it's weirdly easy in a way so little between them usually is. He isn't even thinking about it much when Enjolras says right along with Hugh Grant, "Right, now who do you have to screw to get a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit around here," and Grantaire reaches over to hold the rapidly emptying bakery box up where Enjolras can reach it. 

It isn't a planned move, really, though he'd almost like to take credit for it, in another time and place, just to see if it would fluster Enjolras. And thank God, all Enjolras does is laugh a little and snag a cookie, tossing a little sideways grin at Grantaire as he takes a bite.

It's a handful of scenes later—Grantaire isn't sure how many—when he notices Enjolras has settled against the back of the loveseat, shifted his weight again, and left his right hand resting _just_ to the left of Grantaire's leg. It's enough that he thinks he can feel the warmth of his skin, even if it's probably just half paranoia and half wishful thinking. He wonders if he should move his leg away, some casual move that's the opposite of faking a yawn to drape his arm around someone's shoulders, when Enjolras laughs at the scene playing on the screen, and his hand shifts just a little more, his little finger now actually touching the side seam of Grantaire's jeans.

Grantaire tries not to have a small heart attack.

He spends about thirty seconds freaking out silently in his own head, thinks about the amount of smiling Enjolras has been doing this evening, and makes a decision. In a carefully-orchestrated move, he reaches forward to grab for the last bit of water from the bottle Enjolras had tossed him when he'd brought out the glasses of milk, takes a small sip, and leans back into place, his knee brushing up against Enjolras's thigh.

Neither of them moves away, and Grantaire starts to wonder if his host is oblivious, or if they're playing the saddest, most cautious flirtation game in the history of the entire world.

And then Enjolras yawns and stretches just a little, settling back even farther, and rests his shoulder up against Grantaire's as Aurelia and Jaime flail about in the pond after pages of manuscript. Grantaire's honestly not sure if he wants to laugh at the presumably-fake yawn leading to more physical contact or not, but it's not like he can say anything, since he essentially did the same thing only a couple of minutes ago.

They stay like that, in that awkward holding pattern which Grantaire can't _quite_ relax into, especially when Mark and Juliet begin their awkward interaction in Mark's apartment again. Grantaire can feel the tips of his ears go a little red, even as his stomach gives a weird, nervous turn, and he's just about to pull away, clear his throat or yawn or something, when Enjolras strokes a soft line very deliberately against the outside of Grantaire's thigh when Juliet says "you don't like me."

Grantaire feels like he might throw up. 

It somehow gets marginally better even as it gets worse, because Enjolras doesn't move away, even through that stupid, angsty song, and Grantaire must be fucking _insane_ (or maybe in that coma; he never did prove to himself that he wasn't in some hospital bed somewhere, comatose or hallucinating or dying), because he shifts his own hand enough that it's lying on his leg, resting against Enjolras's hand. Their hands move in practically immeasurable increments over the next few scenes, like the stupidest game of chicken in the _universe_ , until Enjolras has his index finger hooked around Grantaire's ring and pinky finger, the contact undoubtedly intentional. 

It's…it's…okay, Grantaire doesn't actually have words for what it is. It's not _comfortable_ , because his heart feels like it's racing and beating irregularly, and he keeps forgetting to breathe, whenever one of them moves, shifting into the other just a hair more. But it's not _bad_ either, because he and Enjolras are touching, and it's a thing they both appear to want, even if Grantaire's just a coward who can't make a solid next move because he's afraid that if he does, this will prove to be some dream he'll wake from, and then he won't be able to face Enjolras for _weeks_ and will probably make up for it by being even more passive aggressive (or even just actively aggressive) than usual, which will make everything seem normal again, even if he doesn't want that. 

Jesus Christ, he's really got to calm down. They're just _touching hands_.

He's starting to wonder how awkward tonight's goodbye is going to be, how weird or nerve-wracking tomorrow's lunch date for Chinese food might end up, if they still end up doing that together, and he's not even paying all that much attention to the movie anymore. He _does_ , however, hear Enjolras mutter "oh, to hell with it," over the background of Norah Jones singing "Turn Me On" before Enjolras is raising himself up, pivoting on one knee as he tugs Grantaire to face him before dropping down, practically hovering over Grantaire, and then he bends his head down, almost straddling Grantaire's goddamned _lap_ as he does it, and presses his lips against Grantaire's shocked, slack mouth.

It's as if all the air is punched out of him, an embarrassingly soft "ooh" the only noise he can make before his brain clicks on enough to let him know that, hey, he should maybe do something here, before Enjolras gets the very, completely, abysmally wrong idea that Grantaire isn't into this new development. He's too slow to act, and Enjolras starts to pull back, looking confused and embarrassed and upset, before Grantaire is able to mutter "no no no, wait," grabbing at the loose material of Enjolras's shirt and pulling him back down, yanking so firmly that Enjolras half-loses his balance and _does_ end up on Grantaire's lap, before Grantaire has their mouths back together, opening his up and sliding his tongue past Enjolras's parted lips when he recovers.

Enjolras makes a little humming noise that sounds like satisfaction and approval as Grantaire kisses him eagerly, and Grantaire feels himself shiver under his touch when Enjolras runs one hand underneath his shirt, skimming his fingertips up along his side, thumb skating over his ribs before moving around to his back where his hand settles, urging him closer. Grantaire arches his back, pressing himself into Enjolras, and raises a hand of his own to cup the back of his neck, running his fingers through the golden curls he's always wanted to touch. It's the bravest he's ever felt, miles above standing his ground and fighting back against the two guys who jumped him in the alley behind the bar when he was twenty and in possession of his third fake ID, even braver than standing up to his parents and taking off on his own a week after turning eighteen. He could face down the barrel of a gun, and it still wouldn't compare to this, he thinks wildly.

They pull apart after a few more long moments, just enough that they can look at each other without going cross-eyed, and Grantaire is incredibly pleased to note the way Enjolras is breathing heavily, a flush bright on his cheeks and down his neck. His pupils are dark and wider than Grantaire has ever seen, and it's so fucking satisfying he almost thinks he could be hit by a truck on his way home and it would still all be worth it. "Holy fuck," he breathes, still unable to do anything but stare at Enjolras, who just raises his eyebrows in silent question. "Hands down, best Christmas I've ever had."

Enjolras snorts a small laugh. "It's not even Christmas yet. That's tomorrow. You've got at _least_ another couple of hours."

Grantaire rolls his eyes, pressing up for another quick kiss. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Santa got the message. All I want for Christmas is—"

"So help me, you'd better not say it—"

"—you."

"You're ridiculous," Enjolras mutters, looking much more amused than he probably means to. Still, it doesn't stop him from dipping his head forward and grazing his teeth against Grantaire's jaw, then nipping at his earlobe.

"Maybe," Grantaire allows, humming contentedly as Enjolras runs his hand over the skin of Grantaire's stomach. "But happy." He lets Enjolras's hands wander for a few more moments, then chuckles softly. "So. When do I get to _unwrap_ my present, anyway?"

When he gets a choked gasp and small moan followed by a deep, lingering kiss in response, instead of a smack to the back of the head, Grantaire decides that it doesn't matter if it's not yet midnight—this is still _definitely_ his best Christmas ever.


End file.
